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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831114">Take a Breather</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamavacado/pseuds/iamavacado'>iamavacado</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fun, Gen, M/M, binder, obviously, theyre both trans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:15:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,094</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831114</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamavacado/pseuds/iamavacado</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin needs to remember how long to keep his binder on for. 4 hours maximum people.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Take a Breather</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heres my first work for TMA. Hope you enjoy it! It's nothing major, just a small drabble. But have fun reading and leave a comment if you liked it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For some reason, the air inside of Martin's office started to smell especially stale. Not to consider that it was shoved in a back corner of one of the lower levels of the institute, and was roughly the size of a gas station bathroom. Usually, he didn't really notice it. He'd taken to decorating his walls and shelves with trinkets to make the office feel more homey, and he kept a scented candle burning whenever appropriate. Upon his hiring, Elias made sure Martin knew to never light a flame, however small, inside the grounds of the institute, threatening fiery destruction if it ever caught the corner of a file. But Elias was often absent from his post to begin with, not to mention he never stepped foot inside Martin's office--if he even remembered such a room existed. So, most of the time, Martin took comfort in his small room. </p><p>But today, something in the air seemed to make his chest tight. He was at his desk, finishing up a report on the Winslow case: apparently one Amy Winslow was convinced that her father was consorting with someone she described as 'the actual devil'. The statement had recorded straight to the laptop, so he almost didn't want to bother. But he wanted to make sure to do his due diligence, so he was marking the finishing touches on his paper as he felt it. </p><p>It was...almost constricting. Around his ribs, his chest, a little up his shoulders too. When he breathed out, the tightness would fade. But every breath in would be met with that stiff, tightening feeling. It almost felt like something was pushing on him, pushing his chest down, making it harder for him to breathe. </p><p>This happened sometimes. When the weather was especially gloomy, rainy, or when something clogged the vents, the air would go still and Martin would feel constricted. But when he went out for lunch he could feel the sun bathing his skin in its glow. One of the rare sunny days London got during the summer. So it couldn't have been the air conditioning. </p><p>He tried to light a candle, however that did little but fill the room with vanilla cinnamon. Martin wasn't quite sure what was wrong. He pulled at his sweater, but it was actually rather baggy, and not very thick either. He wasn't really hot, per say, he was just out of breath. </p><p>Martin hunched over his desk, fingers gripping his pen in a strange way as he tried to ignore the feeling in his chest. What could be causing this? A thought flitted across his mind that he was being possessed or something, but he quickly dismissed the thought as incredibly silly. Though, stranger things have happened. </p><p>At one point, he stood up to see if walking back and forth in his office would make him feel better. It made it worse, in fact. So he sat down, leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, just trying to breathe. He tried to cough, but he couldn't seem to clear his throat properly. His back ached. He sat up straight again. Maybe he should just go home. </p><p>Just as he went to pick up his phone to ask Jon if it would be okay, he heard his door open. </p><p>"Hey, I'm taking some things to Jon's office and wanted to check--"</p><p>It was Tim. He was holding a thin stack of manilla folders in his hand, with some folded papers sticking out half heartedly. He paused, making a dramatic sniffing motion, tilting his head to the side. He pointed at the candle flickering on Martin's desk. He smirked and said, "That's illegal. I'm telling." </p><p>Martin pushed out a weak fake laugh and looked down at his papers. The last sentence he had written trailed off into shaky, smudged scribbles. </p><p>Tim must have caught the sorry look on Martin's face, or the tone of his voice, because he stopped smiling, face immediately tightening with concern. "Are you okay?" </p><p>"Uh, a-yeah, yes." Martin tried to smooth his features over into a convincing smile, but to be truthful, talking made his chest feel tighter too. "Finishing up a case and uh, I'll take it when I'm done." </p><p>Tim narrowed his eyes at Martin, looking him up and down. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood straight up, now appearing more like a disappointed father than a coworker. "How long have you had it on?" </p><p>Martin quirked up a brow. "What?" </p><p>"Are you not wearing it today?"</p><p>Martin looked down at his sweater. "This?" </p><p>"Not the <em>sweater</em> you-- <em>this."</em> Tim took the manilla folders and gestured to his torso. </p><p>"I don't, uh.." Martin fiddled with his sleeve. </p><p>Tim rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. "For God's sa-- the binder Martin. Are you wearing your <em>binder?"</em></p><p>All at once, Martin was consumed with realization. And embarrassment. And annoyance. Quite a lot of things at once. It was just then he could feel the hem of it start to dig into his stomach. "Oh." He forgot he had been wearing it. How, he didn't know. Perhaps he'd gotten so absorbed in his work he had forgotten it was on, and then didn't connect his feelings of tightness to the fact he'd been wearing it. </p><p>"What time did you clock in today Martin?" asked Tim. </p><p>Martin counted the hours in his head. Then he put his head down. "Eight o'clock." </p><p>
  <em>"Martin! It's nearly five!"</em>
</p><p>Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of jingling keys. He threw them at Martin with a casual toss and said, "Take it off. There's an extra shirt in my car." </p><p>Martin looked at Tim, up and down. Then at himself. "Uh, not quite sure it would <em>fit--"</em></p><p>"It's <em>your</em> shirt, Martin." </p><p>He made a face at this, then remembered. Last week, they both went to dinner, didn't they. "Oh yes, that. Right. Okay." Martin stood up, then looked down at Tim's keys. "How did you know I was wearing it?"</p><p>"Well, I didn't. That's why I asked. But you do have a habit of keeping it on for too long." </p><p>Martin chuckled, still slightly embarrassed. "Almost like you wear your own." </p><p>Tim shook his head. "Nah, don't need to." He started to walk away, but Martin could hear him mumble, "had the damn things chopped off years ago." </p><p>Martin turned his attention to Tim's numerous keys. But he stopped, looking at his doorway, which was empty, as Tim had already left. "Wait, <em>what?"</em></p>
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